


Triptych

by Narya (Narya_Flame), Narya_Flame



Series: Nárë a Lindalë [33]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Drabble Sequence, F/M, Nipple Piercings, Second Age, Time Skips, Years of the Trees, canon character death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-09
Updated: 2020-02-09
Packaged: 2021-02-27 23:26:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22634269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Narya_Flame/pseuds/Narya, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Narya_Flame/pseuds/Narya_Flame
Summary: A trio of drabbles from the point of view of Duilin's wife Netiliel.
Relationships: Duilin of Gondolin/Original Female Character
Series: Nárë a Lindalë [33]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1133360
Kudos: 9





	Triptych

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the SWG 'Hidden Figures' Challenge. 
> 
> Each drabble is exactly 100 words as counted by Open Office.

Long ago in the West I gave him his name – the one he would be known by, when the loremasters told our tales. He bested Tyelkormo in the summer tourney, dancing out of the prince's reach, darting and spinning and swerving, seeming to hang in the air as he leapt.

“Like a swallow in flight,” I laughed to my friend Malina. “Who is he?”

She gave me a sharp, amused look. “Netiliel, he's practically a child. What are you thinking?”

I blushed and said no more – but we were overheard, and the name took hold.

He became Tuilindo.

* * *

He came to me the next day. I'd half expected it; tourney winners often marked triumphs with metal and ink.

He wanted a ring through his left nipple. “Like my brother's,” he explained.

“A bar will hurt less, and heal more quickly,” I told him as he removed his shirt.

He shook his head. It had to be a ring.

When the needle went in, his colour drained and his eyes fluttered closed. It took my best apple brandy to bring him round.

“Don't tell,” he begged me, face still pale.

I squeezed his hand. “It's alright. I never do.”

* * *

At Sirion they gave me an arrow, and a helm with a feathered fan. I could not tell if they were his.

I knew if I burned them, the metal would twist and char. I placed them in a thin reed basket – a rough, homespun thing; I should not have taken it – and set them afloat. No doubt they lie rotting under the waves.

Now the Secondborn's ships bring stories, telling of heroes reborn in the West. Perhaps his eyes are open once more; perhaps he runs and leaps again.

Perhaps, at last, I am ready to go and see.


End file.
